I Worry
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: She's horrified to see him on the TV, because if she's seen him his officials will have too. / RuHun from "But Let It Go, And You Learn" arc.


Author's note: « But Let It Go, And You Learn » arc. Like always. And after « Disputes » since this is also about happenings in Russia atm.

Saw an amazing post on English Russia with photos from the protests in Moscow. Firstly if you don't follow English Russia, you're missing out, I really do love them. (Men with personal train in backyard = best, look for that post.) Secondly even if it's not your thing, go look for the pictures, they were amazing! (Blog post was titled "Moscow Yesterday", from 11th December 2011.) Third, I just really like the dynamic here, the uncertainty and also the family. And now you also know the youngest grandson's name. And Erzsi's worst fear.

Check my profile for updates on when you'll be getting more stories!

* * *

><p><strong>I Worry<strong>

"Look Nagyi, it's Déduška!" the little boy squeals sitting too close to the TV.

"Vanya," Erzsi says in that tone meant to let her youngest grandson know she means business, "you are too close to the TV, Vanya."

"But look, it's Déduška!" He really is the perfect grandchild to have won his grandfather's name. The elder grandson is very disciplined, very much an army man with more of Erzsi's coloring; he reminds her of how the Russian nation used to be on business trips when it was calm and in control. But the youngest boy, though still a child, is so clearly Ivan Braginski reincarnate, from his playful attitude to his light coloring to everything in between. "See, right there Nagyi!"

When the boy's finger points to the TV, dull thud of skin making contact with the glass, Erzsi looks up. Dread fills her. To her horror the boy is right: little Vanya is pointing to her Vanya, protesting in Moscow with his people. A thousand awful thoughts fill her mind as she runs to the TV, her arms sweeping the small boy up as if she might be able to stop everything with the maternal action.

"Anya!" the Hungarian calls, not knowing what else to do. Her eyes are frozen to the TV, her mind desperately trying to catch up on the news broadcast she hadn't been paying much attention to. Protests in Russia, huge protests, and there is Vanya front and center in the shot. He looks like any other Russian in the crowd, but Erzsi knows the truth and so would his officials when they saw the broadcast. "Anya!" This is bad. Bad, bad, bad.

The sound of feet rushing in behind her stops as her daughter takes in the television set, calling the little boy from his grandmother's arms and sending him off to the other room. "Mama," Anya whispers, falling to her knees beside her mother. Her arms wrap around Erzsi's waist, her mother pulling her close. There are no words as they hold each other, waiting for the inevitable bad to arrive.

* * *

><p>"When do you think they will do something?" Francis asks a few days later, reclining in his chair around the kitchen table. Vanya shrugs in the dim light.<p>

"I'm not sure. I imagine they're trying to think up something good," he whispers, defeated, "if they haven't done anything yet."

"Papa," Anya sighs, her eyes wide as she takes in her father. Erzsi can only watch from across the table, Vanya's eyes dull as he takes in the little girl he loved so much, his face betraying the fear and anxiety he's feeling. And their daughter looks terrified, her hands searching for his. He holds Anya's hands tight, kissing them, as Francis shakes his head in despair.

"You do not have to go back," Francis suggests. "We both know the more time that passes the worst this will be. Stay here, with us, until it is better."

"I have to return Francis," the Russian says. Erzsi's noticed he won't look her way. "I knew when I went to the protests what could happen. I made my decision knowing what this would do to me and-"

Erzsi doesn't hear the rest of his words, standing suddenly and leaving the kitchen. There's the sound of surprise behind her as she lets herself out of the Parisian apartment her daughter's family calls home, quickly taking the stairs down to get to street level. She can hear him following, isn't surprised when Vanya grabs one of her arms as she heads off down the street.

"Erzsi, stop!" His hand in the crook of her elbow tightens, his other hand spinning her to look at him. "Erzsi, what did I do?" He looks so lost like that, desperate and scared as much at what she'll do as at what his government will do to him. "Erzsi, please," he gasps because she's wrestling against his grip, "please my love, tell me what I did." Vanya's voice reaches a new level of desperate then and the Hungarian has to stop and look at him. It's the voice he used to use in the dark of night, hidden under the sheets. The voice he used when he told her about watching the tsar's daughters be taken from him, the voice he used when they spoke of letting Anya go. She knows she's the only one who has ever heard the great Russia use that voice.

"You," Erzsi starts, shaking her head and switching from French to Russian. "You didn't think did you?" He could always be so selfish, but normally he could see it. Normally he understood all the implications, but now he seems to understand few of them.

"Didn't think of what?"

"Of us!" The tears she's felt welling up since watching the news finally come, several days too late. At the time she'd wanted only to hold her Russian lover and feel him, and when Vanya had eventually arrived in Paris Erzsi hadn't been able to keep herself off him, needing him more than ever. But now he's here, talking about returning to take whatever his government might do to him because he is their property and they can do as they like with him. "You didn't think of us when you did that did you?"

"Erzsi," and his hands come to the side of her face, thumbs wiping away the tears.

"Why couldn't you have thought of us? Of me, of Anya and the kids? We're so frightened Vanya, this is- this is-" She wants to say "worst than Chernobyl," wants to finally say the things she never said while waiting for him to return from Ukraine. But Vanya's eyes are wide and loving and Erzsi can only grab his face, kissing him passionately. When they break apart the Hungarian nations gasps against Russian lips, "I can't do this Vanya, I can't stand to watch you like this."

Strong arms envelope her, gripping Erzsi close. She pulls at his sweater, inhaling deeply the smell of vodka and old books and the aftershave their daughter had bought him last Christmas. His chest's warmth radiates through the fabric as Erzsi tries to calm her beating heart, Vanya's hands holding her head still against his massive chest.

"I'm sorry," he whispers in her ear, kissing her hair. "I'm so sorry Erzsi but I had to. I couldn't stay quiet."

"Why?" she gasps, her throat tight. "It won't change anything!"

"Because," and she could almost slap him for smiling against her skin, "you taught me how to stand up for myself. You taught me not to sit quietly. Do you remember?" Vanya peels her carefully from his body, bending down to look her in the eyes. It's like they're the only two people in Paris, the rest of the world having melted away. "Do you remember me asking why your people were so rebellious?" She shakes her head; Erzsi rarely remembers these little moments Vanya seems to recall so clearly, but she's used to it. His face comes down, even closer to hers, and against her lips he whispers on word: "Freedom."

All she can do is shake her head once more because Erzsi remembers now, remembers that fireplace and the simple way Vanya had accepted her words. That had been before they were lovers, had been before the revolution. "What I remember," she starts, her gaze meeting his, "is being called into your office and beaten. They only stopped because you defended me Vanya, because it was your house; who can stop them now? I can't repay that debt when the time comes Ivan. I can't defend you."

And that's the worst feeling, the helplessness Chernobyl had given her. Erzsi could only wait for Vanya to come home, helping him to wash and to recover, laying with him under the sheets. But she could do little else and she's never had that before; with Lutz and Gil and Roderich if something happened she could always find a way to fix it. The scale of things in Russia, the cruelty and the power and the history, means she can do nothing. And that's the worst feeling.

A hand strokes her cheek and Erzsi closes her eyes, one hand coming up to hold it. On her finger she still wears the ring Vanya gave her, the one with the emerald like her eyes, like Anya's eyes, the symbol of their love that was never meant to be, never meant for marriage, but was still the strongest thing they've ever experienced. His nose brushes her other cheek, their skin warm where they meet in defiance of the cold wind in the December air.

"You don't have to stop them Erzsébet," he whispers. "Just hold me in my arms after, the way I held you. Can you do that Erzsi? For me?" When their eyes meet again he looks so hopeful, so different from when the conversation began. "I did think of you when I did this, of Anya and the kids. How could you be proud of me, after everything that's happened, if I did nothing? I want you to be proud."

"I, just- I worry," Erzsi finally admits. "About you. All the time. You make me worry, you stupid Russian." His grin is lopsided at that as she half-heartily slaps his chest, and even Erzsi smiles weakly up at him through her tears.

"And I worry about you too, my beloved Hungarian. Now come on, let's go back inside before the others worry too much more." Soon it will snow, Erzsi knows, boxes in the hall to decorate for Christmas; the normalcy moves on despite the struggles of the nations incarnate. With his arm around her waist, guiding her back inside, she sighs and knows he's right. There aren't many things their grandchildren have to be proud of, torn between the mortal and immortal world when they look back at what happened between Russian and Hungary, but they still have their grandmother's smiles for Vanya and their grandfather's kisses for Erzsi and words of love in so many languages to remember. They survive despite the struggle, Erzsi and Vanya, to give their family something to be proud of.

"You looked good," Erzsi whispers as Vanya opens the door. "On the TV. You looked hot."

"Did I now?" His smirk is a little too mischievous, a little too knowing, and a little too sure of if he'll be getting sex tonight, so she slaps him before going back inside.


End file.
